


Beautiful Stranger

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Online Dating, Post-Goolding Inquiry, Pure Cheese in Parts, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:55:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Post-series and post-James, Nicola eventually decides to try online dating.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 72
Kudos: 40





	1. Day 0

**Author's Note:**

> There's a new dating app on the market where you can't see the photos until you've messaged for seven days in a row. Nicola thinks this is perfect. Katie thinks it sounds like something out of a true crime podcast.

**Nic, 49**

📏 5'4"  
🏡 Walthamstow Village, London, England  
🏢 Project Manager, The National Trust  
📚 University of Warwick, BA Law with European Law (1987)

 _I'm Looking For_ :

Nothing serious - got kids, divorced, so no time-wasters. Someone to spend time with, explore the countryside with, pub lunches non-negotiable.

_My Simple Pleasures:_

Muddy dog walks, clean sheets, pasta, a tidy house.

 _Teach Me Something About_ :

EU fishing quotas 🐟

 _My Typical Sunday_ :

Milk Tray and Gavin and Stacey.

* * *

**Douglas, 56**

📏 6'0"  
🏡 Islington, London, England  
🏢 PR - don't ask.  
📚 School of Hard Knocks

 _I'm Looking For_ : Just the same as everyone else on here. Except the pervs. Won't give you a ring, but I've got a mate who will, no questions asked.

 _Two Truths and A Lie_ : I've never celebrated my birthday, I don't like spaghetti, Kate Middleton fancies me.

 _My Ideal Date_ : Walk along the river and feed the swans, try not to get bitten, then lunch somewhere unpretentious. Nothing posh - no foams or purees.


	2. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its a Match.

The soft pding-ding of Nicola's phone was practically hardwired into her brain to release a rush of endorphins and validation. Whether it was a new photo on Katie's Instagram or an automated reminder from the hairdressers, just the fact that someone out there had something to say to her filled her with a childlike flood of excitement. Despite various occasions on which she'd almost dropped her phone in the bath or into a pan of bolognese or onto her own face in bed, she really couldn't help looking at it immediately. Especially when the notification that lit up the screen told her that it was a new match on the dating app her kids had insisted she download. Well, Ella really, Katie thought it was a sure-fire way to attract weirdo's - remember when you said you were flypaper for dickheads? - and though she was normally more inclined to side with Ella's spontaneous and optimistic nature, she was starting to understand that perhaps Katie had been right. Each new match filled her with an romanticised hope that maybe this one would be Quite Nice. She wasn't looking for The One, he probably didn't exist, and if he did, there was a statistically unlikely chance that he happened to live nearby and also be single. But Quite Nice would be - well, quite nice. She just had to sift through the dickheads first. A Knob Sieve, if you will. She downed the last of her glass of white wine for courage and picked up her phone, unlocking it quickly and checking the app as she stuck her dinner plate in the sink. It was just her at home, so it could wait till the morning. The plate, not Mr Quite Nice. Douglas, hm? She scrolled down quickly, looking for any red-flags, then re-read his profile more slowly when she didn't see anything immediately off-putting. He'd Liked her, that was the main thing.

A little older, but she quite liked that, always had. Islington, nice, but he didn't sound posh. Far from it, actually, but maybe he was one of those posh dickheads who pretends to be normal for social credit. Like James, her mind unhelpfully supplied, and she poured another glass of wine instinctively, not even focusing on the movement of opening the fridge, holding her wine glass just under the second shelf and pulling the lever on the box of Aldi's finest. Christ. Box wine on a Tuesday night. How the Mighty have fallen. Did he really not like spaghetti? That should probably have been highlighted on first scan, but perhaps the wine was going to her head. Surely not - she'd only had two. She might be nearly fifty, but she was still perfectly capable of putting them away with only moderate levels of grumpiness the next morning. More likely she needed her reading glasses, but fuck knows where they were. In the dog, probably.

_Do you really not like spaghetti? That must be the lie. Surely. Xx_

* * *

"- get yer feet off the coffee table, Malc! See _this_ is why ye need a woman, need tae get ye domesticated proper. And no' an English one neither, we know how that turned out-" Grace huffed, turning to stir the bolognese. "Gracie. Please. Give a man a little respect in his own home" Malcolm sighed, with the long-suffering air of an older brother utterly exhausted, hiding his slight smile behind a sip of Fanta. "Ye cannae come in here, make yerself dinner from my groceries and _then_ start slagging off my ex-wife, aye? One or the other. Bolognese or bollockings. What's it to be, lass?" Grace grinned, rolled her eyes, and gestured to the packet of spaghetti he was holding out to her, his other hand flipping her off. "Dinner. M'fuckin starved." 

"Anyway, I dunnae why you're so insistent on me getting a Scottish girlfriend. Scottish women are fucking feral. Just look at ye" Malcolm reasoned when they'd sat down at the kitchen table, Grace tucking into her spaghetti with maximum enthusiasm and minimal elegance. "Surprised ye havenae eaten David alive yet, huh?" She glared at him, then stuck her tongue out. "Who says I haven't?" She teased, and he immediately regretted walking into that one. Even though she was fourty-odd now, it was still deeply uncomfortable to be faced with the realities of your little sister's sex life. "Anyway-" she started, waving her hand vaguely in a way that made her sparkly rose gold bangles clink. Fuck David for giving Grace a way of being even more compelling and attention-grabbing. She was waving those things around like Kate Middleton, and the soft clink-clink made her impossible to ignore. A guest lecture on his relationships by the one and only Grace Tucker, BA (Hons) Being Fucking Right was coming up, and if he wanted the rest of this frankly delicious bolognese, he was going to have to sit and listen. 

"- I'm only having to be so involved in your girlfriend shopping-" she began, before he shot her a particularly sharp look, his left eyebrow raising of its own free will. "- girlfriend _choosing_ , because ye won't make any effort of yer own. If you could just get out a bit, and I dunnae mean those four hour walks, I mean like - yknow, places where you might actually encounter human life - then eventually you might meet someone and I could leave ye alone." Coming from Grace's mouth, it somehow seemed like the most logical thing in the world, and he was about to acquiesce and agree to actually _try_ before he realised he was being outmanouevered. "Gracie, are ye trying to make me go on another fuckin blind date with one of yer friends? That Mel, she was honestly the maddest and simultaneously the saddest woman I have ever met. And ye didnae even tell me that her husband had just died! I am **not** , not, going on one of yer hare-brained set ups again. No fucking way." There was a distinct pout forming on his sister's face, one that he knew only he and his stubborn, unchangeable nature could put there. She stabbed her fork into the pasta with unnecessary force and twirled it around like she was contemplating slowly strangling him. "Have ye at least still got that app?" 

"Aye, as a matter of fact, I have, _actually_. Even did some matching just now before dinner, swipin, whatever the fuck it is." Granted, he hadn't really been actually looking, there was footie on, but he known she'd ask about it, so he'd picked a few suitably-aged relatively normal sounding profiles to add to his pile of Matches. Some of them better have liked him back, else he was gonnae look like a right twat. He didn't really see the point of it, hence why he'd forced Grace to use a fake name and a sharply minimalist profile, but it kept her sweet, at least. And it wouldn't do to look like a Matchless fucker in front of his wee sister. "Look, here" he insisted, pulling out his phone. He was sure he'd heard that irritating little notification noise a second ago that signaled a mutual match. "There we go, aye, Nic - divorced, tha's a start, kids, she'll be homely, Walthamstow village, nice and posh, eh?" He showed her the profile, noticing the blinking message notification. "And she's already messaged me. It's practically a done deal, Gracie. Ye can go back to yer actual home, relax, unwind, and delete yer fuckin spreadsheet."


	3. Day 1.5

_Do you really not like spaghetti? That must be the lie, surely. Xx_

It's your lucky day. Love pasta, just had some now, actually. 

Sorry, that wasn't a very enticing opener. 

_I'm shit at these things too, don't worry. I love pasta too, so that's a start, right? Xx_

_Not that we're starting anything. I didn't mean that. Xx_

Two kisses means we're starting something. Sorry Nic, thems the rules. 

_Two kisses is what I send to my kids. Xx_

_Shit, I mentioned the kids too early, didn't I? Forget that. I'm much more interesting and mysterious than this, I promise. Few too many wines. Xx_

Message me tomorrow?

If you want. 

_(Read, 9:04pm)_


	4. Day 2

_Morning. Hope I haven't woken you. Thanks for not laughing at me yesterday. Xx_

Laughing at you? I'm not a prick. Ye didn't even embarass yourself that much, it was pretty funny.

How's your head? 

_Shite thanks. I need to walk the dog but I'd rather just lie here and die. Xx_

Can't one of the kids do it? That's what they're for, right, menial labour?

_With their dad. Prick. Xx_

Sorry. That he's a prick, and that I asked. Have you got any of those fizzy vitamin things? 

_Yeah, loads. Why? Xx_

Couple of them in a pint of water and a bacon sandwich and you'll be good to go, lass. Up and at em. 

_(9:15am, photo attached of a small curly haired brown dog running through a muddy woods, Nics bright floral wellies just visible) We made it! Xx_

Nice wellies. Looks fucking perfect. Cute dog, too. 

_Archie. He's adorable, when he's not being a twat. Do you have any pets? Xx_

No pets, nah. I'd like a dog but its a big responsibility. I like walking, though. My sister Gracie actually bollocked me for walking too much yesterday, which I'm not sure how to take.

 _Probably jealous of your calves ;) are you close? Xx_

Aye, she's my best friend. 

That made me sound four. But aye, we're close. She's actually the one who made me go on this fucking app thing. 

_You're lucky. I don't have any siblings, wish I did. At least my girls have taken on matchmaking for me. Xx_

Aye, I am. Wish I could've had kids, though. Sort of. I'm sure you'll tell me its one of those things that sounds good but is actually shite, like live music or smoking. Cocktails.

_Cocktails are shite, aren't they, when you think about it. Won't stop me though. Xx_

_It's a job, having kids. A 24/7 job you have to do on top of your actual, other job. Plus it'll probably wreck your marriage, so. Xx_

_Sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all this. Xx_

I asked. Sounds fucking exhausting. How old are they? 

_Oh, nearly grown ups, really. My youngest is ten, nearly eleven, but the rest are pretty self sufficient. Xx_

Makes ye feel old, doesn't it? 

Not that you are old. Every time it's my nieces birthday I feel fucking ancient, though. And she's only eight.

_You really aren't very good at this, are you? Xx_

Its hard to charm hungover women. All you want is a McDonalds and a nap, not some random internet man harping on at you. 

_Random psychic internet man. Internet wizard who knows my secret desires. Xx_

Go get it, lass. They'll bring it to your door these days, even all the way out in the wilds where you live. Dont even have to get out of yer pyjamas. 

_Who says I have pyjamas? Xx_


	5. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola gets ahead of herself. Frequently.

(7am) Not to double text, but you okay?

_Yes!!!! Sorry. I'm so sorry. I slept, a lot, panicked a bit, I'm not good at hangovers. I kept meaning to message you back. Xx_

No bother, lass. How about tomorrow morning, we try and have ye not apologise for anything? There's really no need. 

_Did you have a good evening? Xx_   
_Whats double texting? Xx_

I did, aye. Had a few friends over for a curry. It's when you send two texts in a row without getting an answer, apparently it seems needy. According to women's magazines and those articles Gracie sends me about online dating. 

_Done your research, hm? I do that all the time. Do you think I'm needy? Xx_

No, Nic, not at all. You seem very sweet. 

You panicked a bit? 

_It's like - hangxiety, my daughter calls it. Hangover anxiety. Xx_

Oh, aye, I know that one. I mean, I don't drink anymore, but I had my fair share of hangxieties. 

_Can you still go to pubs? Because I was going to ask you if you wanted to go for lunch, but - we can go somewhere else. If you want. If you want to even go, that is. Xx_

_Am I being ridiculous? Xx_

Aye, yer being ridiculous. I'd like to go for lunch. Wherever you like. 

_Well, there's this little country pub, The Angler, down by the river. Archie loves it, I love it, so... maybe you'd love it too. When suits? Xx_

_I know it's maybe a bit soon. But I'm just shit at this. I'm better in person. Xx_

Me too, aye. Can't be doing with all this fucking technology. Fresh air and chips and actually getting to meet ye both sounds like a much better idea. 

Depends what you're doing with work, suppose. I've got Wednesday off, or next weekend? 

_I don't work Wednesday, and it'll be quieter then. Wednesday sounds good. Xx_

Ye don't like it busy, then?

_No, I prefer it quieter. Just, I'm a bit anxious, is all. It's nothing, really, I'm not going to start screaming if someone sits next to me or something. Xx_

I should hope not, cause I'll be sitting next to ye, and that'd be a bit awkward, eh? 

_Wednesday, then. We can sort out a time later, and all that sort of stuff. Xx_

_At least you'll get to see my photos on Tuesday, that'll be a week since we matched. So you can decide if you want to come or not. Xx_

I'll be there. Like I said, I'm not a prick. 

Not /that/ much of a prick, anyway. 

But look, if you want to bring a friend, or have lunch before you wander along the riverside with a man you've never met, I get it. Up to you, pet. 


	6. Day 4

(10am) _Morning! No apology! Xx_

Nice work. Did ye know I can see what you're listening to on Spotify? 

_Oh Christ. Xx_   
_I'm deleting this. Xx_   
_Im not! I'm not. Not until Wednesday at least. Xx_

If I'm lovely you wont need it any more, if I'm a perv or a boring fuck it'll stop me bothering ye? 

_Something like that. Xx_   
_I didn't know it showed other people that. Xx_

Were ye really listening to that miserable Joni Mitchell album all evening? 

_Were you really looking at my profile all evening keeping tabs on what I was listening to?_

Okay, aye. Got me there. Whatever floats your boat, Nic. 

_I've never seen you listening to anything? Xx_

I'm old school, me. Still got fuckin CDs. But mostly records. I'm not a wanker, it just gives people something to buy me for birthdays. 

_When is your birthday? Xx_

Not soon. 

_Mysterious 🧙‍♂️what kind of records do you like, then? Xx_

The fuck is that? Dumbledore? 

Mostly seventies, eighties stuff. Velvet Underground, The Jam, The Cure. Old man music. 

_The kind of stuff that the actually popular guys were listening to in their bedrooms with a joint on the go while I was stuck with Handsy Paul at the back of the pub? Xx_

Oh aye, something like that. Though lads my age probably had a wife and kiddies by the time you were old enough to get served. 

Who's Handsy Paul, anyhow? Yer ex husband? 

_Haha, very funny. I wish. He's got a swimming pool now, Paul. Lovely wife too. Xx_

Mm, put up with a bit of the old wandering hands syndrome for a shot at yer very own Club Tropicana, eh? 

_You're actually quite funny. Xx_   
_I don't mean it like that. Xx_   
_I mean you're funny. I like you. Xx_   
_I mean I like that. That you're funny. Xx_

Are you alrigh, Nic? 

_Like I said, I'm better in person. Xx_   
_But yeah, I'm okay. Having a good day actually 🙂 Xx_

Good. All that Joni Mitchell got something out of yer system, clearly. 

_Mostly the leftover toxins from the dregs of an Aldi wine box. Cried it all out, its a good tactic. Xx_

Well, I'm glad it worked. Ye seem more chipper. Got to go, I'll text ye later. 

* * *

(Message recipient: Sammy 🧚‍♀️)

I need help. With women. Mishkins at 2? I'll buy you a Reuben with extra pickles _and_ chips if you promise not to laugh. Or tell Jay. x 

_You can buy my silence so easily. See you there. Do I need to bring diagrams? x_

Fuck off. Thanks, lass. x 


	7. Day 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 🎶 take me dancing tonight 🎶

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a wordy one this but I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Plus bonus Sam content!

Did ye have fun last night? You played Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go four times in a row, Nic.

_Did you have fun last night?? Cher mean anything to you?? Xx_

* * *

It's not possible to just go for lunch with Sam Cassidy. She'll insist on walking you home, nipping into bakeries and shops where somethings caught her eye in the window, so what should be a ten minute walk takes at least an hour of your time on Earth. Not that Malcolm minds. She's relentlessly upbeat and optimistic as ususal, even more so now that she's found out his secret. She'd actually _squealed_ when he told her, a little chirp of excitement that reminded him of small mammals. So he doesn't _mind_ \- especially not when she comes out of the bakery with two bags of goodies and hands one to him, having bought him one of everything she was getting - but Christ, she's slow. Then when they're on his doorstep, it's time for another Cassidy classic, the utterly casual "can I just have a wee?". Women, he has learnt through Gracie and Sam, seem to need to piss at any available opportunity. "Aye, knock yourself out lass, but I'm going in" he grins, raising an eyebrow. She thumps him right in the shoulder and steps inside when he unlocks the door, heading straight for the downstairs loo. She sings to herself in there. Fucking hell. 

He'd always noticed her soft humming and occasional snatches of song in the office, usually musical theatre or something eighties. He'd noticed too the way she'd come in sometimes with sore or taped up ankles, the way she'd sit and listen to him vent for hours on end, all the while pointing her toes delicately at the floor in turn, and the graceful way she moved in general, picking up files and coffees and dropping them off with a poise and elegance that most people seemed oblivious of. Aye, Tucker, and that's why everyone thought you were fucking her, isn't it? He wasn't, wouldn't, not ever, not least because Sammy's "not that way inclined" as she explained to him quietly, calmly, on what can only have been her third day in the office. She didn't have to explain herself to him then, and she doesn't now, he requires no explanation at all for the way she comes out of the bathroom and curls up on a chair at his kitchen table, feet up under her to escape the cold tiles. He nudges his slippers over to her and puts the kettle on. She's clearly planning to stay a while. "How's the new school?" He asks, getting two mugs out and starting on coffee. "Great! I love it, the kids are great and the department is great, and we're going to do Matilda this summer -" She's off, away, and he's happy to follow along for once. 

He starts to question his unquestioning devotion at about eight, when she commandeers his phone ("mines broken", its not, she's just been scrolling through Instagram showing him photos of her latest conquests two minutes ago) and insists they have a disco. A disco. Malcolm Tucker has not been in a disco since - well, he's not been to a disco. At least not that he recalls. He's danced, sure, but in sweaty, close clubs where the density of people necessitates grinding more than anything resembling actual dance. "It's just moving, Malcolm! You move all the time. And it'll cheer you up, miserable fucker" she grins, taking his hand and dragging him into the space in his living room she's dedicated to the pursuit of happiness. He worries she'll slip on the wood floors, in those stupid tights, so he better stay close just incase. She taps away at his phone for a second, connecting it up to the speaker on the coffee table, then he hears it. The oh too familiar, spinning, whirling, build up, then the beat, the refrain, that _fucking woman._ "No matter how hard I try, you keep pushing me aside, and I can't break through, there's no talking to you..." Sam practically accuses as she starts to move, which is - she's probably got a point. And it _was_ so sad that she was leaving. He might as well enjoy having her here now. 

He's flushed and warm and a little out of breath by the time they reach the sheer ecstatic peak of the damn thing, having been twirling Sammy around and shifting around on his own feet for a good four minutes. He's not even that unfit, but Sammy's relentless, she dances like a spin class and a marathon in one. Thankfully the exertion required to keep up with her distracts him from the lyrics, until she looks him right in the eye and asks if he **believes** in life after love. They both know exactly what she's talking about, who she's talking about, and the whole messy, fucking awful business that followed. He knows she's actually asking him, needing to know whether he's okay, whether he's ready to move on and meet new people, whether he's strong enough. Whether he still needs Nicola anymore. The weight of it makes him feel a little bit sick, but neither of them have stopped dancing. They can probably dance it all away, all of that. Sweat it out and move on. 

* * *

Had friends over. A friend, she's a performing arts teacher. Forced me to dance out my negative energy or whatever the fuck. 

_Come on baby, let's not fight. We'll go dancing, everything will be alright? Xx_

Very good. We could, if you wanted? Do you like dancing?

_I'd like that. A lot. Love dancing, I go to this eighties disco thing sometimes. It sounds crap, and it is, really, but its so fun. Great people. Xx_

Let's go. Don't want to miss it when you hit that high. X 


	8. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever, ever closer (and they don't even know it yet)

Morning, Nic. How's tricks? 

_Really good, thanks. I've been offered a promotion at work. Xx_

That's great to hear! 

You are gonnae take it, right?

_Dunno. It's nice to be offered, but it's a lot more responsibility. I've got to think about the kids. Xx_

Aye, course, but your wee one is nearly eleven, right? Be at big school soon, be able to stand on his own two feet. But I raised myself, pretty much, so don't take my word for it. I'm just sayin I think it'd work out. 

You got any family close by? 

_My mum, yeah. She could have him in the evenings if needs be, they'd both love that. Xx_

I'm sensing a but. 

_I used to have a more demanding job. A much more demanding job, actually. I couldn't be there for them, and that really hurt them. I'm always worried about doing that again. Xx_

You're a good mum, I can tell that. That's the best place to start. And once you've worried about something, means you've thought about it, properly. Means you hopefully won't do it again. 

_Suppose so. We've all been arses, at one point or another. Xx_

_Thank you, though. That's very sweet. Xx_

Aye, try my best. Go for the promotion. You can blame me if it doesn't work out. 

* * *

_Sorry for disappearing on you. Went to work,_ _accepted the promotion. Start next Monday :) Xx_

Drinks on me on Wednesday then? 

_See you there. Xx_

Excited for it. 

_Plus you get to see my face tomorrow! Been changing my pictures all day. Xx_

Me too. Stop worrying about it, though. I'll be there. 


	9. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here commences the photo reveal of your dreams/nightmares/fantasies...

It's an unfamiliar sound by now, the persistent buzz of her phone against the wood of the bedside table. She has the dulcet tones of Nick Robinson as her alarm, no vibration, it just plays Radio 4 at whatever time she sets it for, usually around 7:30, halfway through Today. So it's not her alarm. It's something else, something - ugh - something important. Rolling over with a soft sigh, she rubs her eyes, feeling the gritty stickyness of the mascara she didn't quite remove properly last night. Gross. 6:15 am and she has fifteen missed calls from an unknown number. Someone's died. She's suddenly much more awake, jolting into action and sitting up only to stay there, head spinning slightly, sick to her stomach. If something's happened to one of the kids, she'll never forgive herself that she wasn't there for them. If something's happened to James, well - nobody would've thought to call her. Except the kids. And then she's back to the previous statement. Whatever it is, it will be important. Has to be. She almost doesn't want to know.   
  


* * *

  
  
It's a blissful release from the never-ending dial tone when she finally picks up, sleepy and groggy and all affected calm, a quiet "hello, Nicola Thornton speaking" as if anything about this is routine or normal. "Nic'la - " he starts, and she gasps and drops the phone, if the deafening crackle in his ear is anything to go by. She must be in bed. "Nic'la, it's me. Malcolm. Douglas. Malcolm Douglas Tucker. Look, don't -" he begins to feel distinctly clammy handed, listening to the way Nicola's breath is hitching down the phone line. "Ye didnae look at the pictures yet, did ye?" He sighs, realising he should've given her more time to work this one out on her own, to form her own opinions before he rang her at god knows what time in the morning in search of a comment, an angle, a way they could spin this back into something resembling normal life. He hears the fucking dog, snuffling away, and if she's got that thing on the bed then there's no way he's going anywhere near her, even if he's allowed to. "It's not even six thirty, Malcolm" he hears, a little plaintive and whiny just like she's always been in the early mornings, and suddenly it feels like his stomach has just dropped out of the soles of his feet. He actually looks down, expecting to see his throat lying there on the carpet next to the slippers Gracie got him for Christmas. He's only in his boxers, perched on the edge of the bed where he first made the stupid fucking decision to finally take a look at this woman he's been speaking to all week, and he means all fucking week. It's been non-stop, she's always there. Always. Always excited and enthusiastic and managing to draw a smile from him even when he's been truly fucked off with everything else around him. He's not smiling now.   
  
God, the universe, Fate, his bad karma, whomever the fuck, has fucked him over royally here. Cannae even try and get a new girlfriend without her turning out to be the old - she wasn't ever his girlfriend. Maybe that's part of the problem. Ringing up an ex and pleading with them that you've changed, that we can work on this, that she can have whatever she wants and more, all of it, all the time, he can do that. He's done that. This - this is totally fucking unknowable. She's totally fucking unknowable, come to think of it. What was all that shite about Wham! and going dancing, and making him her special cottage pie, and the whole being divorced thing? And being on a dating app? That her kids set up for her? Jesus Christ on a cross-trainer, Nic'la. He could almost believe that it wasn't her, except she doesn't look any different. Well, no, she does - she's got much nicer hair, soft curls and waves in a slightly lighter shade, probably bleached by the uncharacteristically hot summer that's just tailed off. She's filled out a little too, though he'd obviously never say as such, but her cheeks are rounder, rosier, much more like she was when he first saw her. She looks fucking great, she's hot, even, he'll allow himself the opportunity to say so now they don't work together anymore, but she's still definitely Nicola. Which means this still definitely isn't a good idea. And she's still definitely on the fucking phone. She needs to not be, so he can call Sam or Jamie or Gracie or someone, and get this whole sorry mess straightened out.   
  
'Are you still coming to lunch tomorrow?' she asks before he can work out what to say next, and she's calm and bright in a way that he really can't process or understand. Right. Pub lunch with the dog, aye, the sort of shite he enjoys with women he could concievably be dating, not -   
  
'Aye. I'll be there.'  
'Good. Me too. I'll text you.' 


	10. Day 0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this lives up to expectations! 
> 
> The POV switches around a bit here as I've gotten used to writing both of them. Hopefully it still flows.

Tuesday is a write off. Neither of them works, not at all, though Malcolm calls his editor for the memoirs and tells him quite plainly that there's no way he's going to get the edits done by the end of the month. He's going to have quite enough to deal with without wincing every time he comes across a particularly sharp jab about Nicola's competence, wondering if he should change it. Does he still think that? He should have just written the whole thing about her arse. On some things, his opinion will never change.  
  
Wednesday is a new day. Not quite a new beginning. They probably don't exist, and if they do, it's probably a trap, a not-quite-solid forest floor through which they could both fall and end up trapped in a mine somewhere, she's read about that happening before, somewhere down South. But it's a new day, and she's had a little sleep, at least. She's painted her nails. There are small mercies to be held in both hands. Besides, maybe she doesn't want to start again, again. Maybe she wants to start right back at the beginning, rather than pretending that none of it ever happened. It's a new tactic, one that feels unfamiliar as she slips into her carefully chosen outfit and tries her new mindset out for size, zipping up knee high boots like she's going into battle in some far off matriarchal galaxy where shiny leather gets you what you want. In her dreams.  
  
Archie doesn't give a shit about his mother's emotional turmoil, that's part of the reason why she loves him so much. He still needs walks, fresh air, things to sniff, whether she's falling apart or not, and the steady routine of it has become a glue of morning dew and mud that holds her together at the edges when she needs it. Which is becoming less and less often, partly due to having a job that she loves and which feels wholesome for once rather than carcinogenic, and partly due to - to a sense of hope, she supposes, shutting and double locking the front door and hoicking Archie into the back seat of the car. Melodramatic princess. Ella's Taylor Swift CD is in the player, and she wonders briefly what sort of children she's raised, still burning CD's in this day and age. She recalls with a frosted half-understanding Ella saying something about remixes, and fan-videos, GIFs and these two characters on that show she's watching, but it fades away into the background as she goes for the radio instead. Poetry Please. Fucking great, just what she needs. Where's Nick? She switches over to Greatest Hits as she pulls out of the drive, and that's perfectly okay for a bit, until they're nearly at the agreed meeting location. She then has to concentrate a little harder on the road, and can't find a safe moment to switch it over again as they start playing 'I'll Be Seeing You'. At least that's what she tells herself.  
  
There's a poetry to the way she crunches over the gravel of the riverside car-park just as Billie reaches her smooth, sultry crescendo. This is the song they played to the Opportunity rover before they abandoned it on Mars, she remembers reading about it. Switching the car off (sorry, Billie), she hops down and gets Archie out, looking around for Malcolm. He doesn't drive, or didn't last time she knew him, so she looks for where a cab would most likely have dropped you off, and spots him leaning up against a wall, just staring out across the river, watching an evolving domestic tension between as small group of swans. She heads towards him, discouraging Archie from eating a tissue he finds on the way, and there's no opportunity to startle each other considering how much noise Archie makes on approach to a New Human. His soft little whimpers are pretty much what Nicola feels like doing right now too. Alongside having four fags, two pints, and a quick dip in the Thames.  
  
'Hello, darlin'' Malcolm all but coos, and she blushes before he crouches down and scratches behind Archie's ears. Of fucking course. 'He's a boy' she reminds Malcolm, and he looks up and quirks an eyebrow at her. 'So fuckin what?' he grins, standing and - he doesn't kiss her, thank God, but there's an attempt at an awkward one armed hug as she tries to also stop Archie tugging her over in an attempt to go and live with the swans. She can't quite feel him, through coats and jumpers, but he's here, and that's a start.  
  


* * *

  
'and so then I said - ' he breaks off, grinning across at her with that big, boyish, wolfish grin, both sides of the parable in one '- I said, "look, I've got no ID, but I'm allowed to be on the Parliamentary Estate, surely you recognise me. Surely." I mean, 'am no making any presumptions to being Angelina fuckin Jolie or Ronald fuckin McDonald, but people recognise me, surely, don't they? So he looks me up and down again, and I can see it flickering, behind his eyes, in that way it does, y'know - and then he goes - "oh I do recognise you, actually? You used to work with that nice lady, didn't ye, that one with the hair? Nicola?" Nicola! So that's my reputation gone, I 'spose' he sighs exaggeratedly, offering her another of his chips even as she's laughing too hard to be able to safely consume anything without risk of aspiration. It's not new, seeing Nicola in hysterics, he used to be able to achieve it fairly often, in the back of taxis, in her office after a particularly wired, keyed up sort of day, on their brief secret lunchbreak trysts that involved nothing more than getting coffee and a sandwich and walking back to work together. But it's nice to be able to do it here, in public, with her dog and her stupid fluffy cardigan on, and a little bit of coffee froth on her bottom lip. It's affirming somehow, a reminder that he can do this, he still knows how. He still knows her, at heart, and the rest he's willing to learn. She composes herself eventually, takes the proffered chip and chews it thoughtfully while looking across at him. There's a nervous twist of her wrist, a clink of bracelet against table, before she comes out with it. 'Does Kate Middleton really fancy you?' He snorts, and it makes her eyes sparkle. 'Aye, think so. But she's married now, even if he is definitely cheating, so - m'free if ye know anybody who's interested.' 'I might' she says, too quickly, and it's theoretically possible that his eyes sparkle too. If they know how to do that. 'No more fake names though, I'm not into roleplay' she bats back as if it's nothing, and the laughter that follows is also a sigh of relief.


End file.
